


Toujours Amour

by orphan_account



Series: Amour Series [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Daddy Kink, M/M, Schmoop, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kurt calls him ‘Daddy’ Blaine doesn’t feel anything like his father. (Direct sequel to Amour Amour, please read that first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toujours Amour

**Author's Note:**

>  

[12:13AM] From Lila: _Dad come get your lightweight boyfriend. He's passed out on my husband. At the fountain._

"Hi, dolly." 

Blaine tugs a ringlet of his daughter's thick dark hair in greeting. His name for her since she was just a tiny, doll-like two-year-old, all curls and giant blue eyes. Their first baby had been more of an overwhelming burden than a blessing, but it hadn't taken long for Delilah Anderson to enchant and enslave her father, tying him firmly around her little porcelain finger.

She smiles up at him sleepily, slumped under the arm of her husband Dylan, backlit by the wavering lights in the pond behind them.

"Hey, Dad." She motions with her thumb to the other side of the bench, where Kurt is on the grass, curled against Dylan's leg, head on his knee, face slack. "I think it was the champagne."

"Little dude is all tuckered out!" Dylan mock-whispers, gently patting Kurt's shoulder. 

"Thanks, you two," Blaine sighs, squatting down in front of Kurt.

The entire evening, the entire _trip_ Blaine’s has used this moment with Kurt as a reward. Kept his head down and suffered through the rigors of being in the wedding party, the disapproval of his family, and tempering his son’s condemnation with extra attention and limitless patience. All for this, the stroke of midnight, when his shockingly young lover transforms back into…just the man he loves.

Of course, right now, the man he loves looks exactly like the boy he shouldn’t. Like a skinny, pink-tipped cupid in a ruffled shirt.

“Kurt,” he says softly, touching Kurt’s slack wrist. Kurt squints awake with a wince of worry. 

“Oh, crap. I totally fell asleep.” 

Kurt stands with a little help, quick to brush the ass of his pants free from nonexistent dirt. Dylan unhelpfully swats at it too. 

“Thank you, Dylan,” Blaine says, tucking Kurt under his arm. Both his daughter and her husband smirk up at them. While he’s forever thankful for Lila’s open mind and open heart, it comes at the price of being teased mercilessly by his own child. He ignores the smirks and checks his watch.

“Mmmm, what time is it?” Kurt mumbles. Kurt needs ten minutes and a calculator when confronted with an analog clock face. While it’s endearing...kids these days.

“Almost 12:30,” Blaine translates for him. He looks behind them through the courtyard where the dance floor is still full and the midnight buffet is swamped.

He’s located Kurt, he knows both of his children are relatively content, and Blaine is done. _Finished_. His duty to his brother, to his parents, to everyone who thinks that Blaine owes them contrition just because he’s happy: fulfilled.

“Oh, Blaine, dear, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Should we head over and stay until the band is finished?” Kurt asks sincerely. But the hand that he’d slipped under Blaine’s jacket gives Blaine’s side a single squeeze. Their code for _you want to blow this joint?_

“Maybe some coffee and we’ll hit a second wind? Don’t want everyone to think we can’t keep up...,” he agrees gravely, giving Kurt’s shoulder an answering quick double-squeeze. Code for _let’s get the hell out of here; swoon and cause a scene if you have to._

“Oh my god, who are you two trying to fool?” Lila snorts. “We both know you’ve been dying to sneak away and eskimo kiss - Dad, I’m sure that’s all you do, right? - all night. Go. If anyone asks, you’re already at the after-party, okay?”

“You are my favorite daughter,” Blaine tells her truthfully. 

“Yeah, yeah. We still on for tomorrow?” 

One last round of golf with his kids before driving down and unveiling San Francisco to Kurt in all its seedy glory.

“11:05, I will be on that tee box.”

“I booked two carts; one for you and me, and one for Rudy and his pout.” Lila Anderson: smartass and hyper-organizer. Blaine grunts.

“Might need three; it’s a big one.” 

He immediately regrets the quip when Kurt fidgets under his arm. He glances over, but Kurt is frowning down at the crushed grass. Blaine does his best to spare Kurt the brunt of his son’s resentment towards him, usually. It had been a long night. Blaine tightens his arm around Kurt, digs awkwardly under his jacket with his other hand to lace his fingers with Kurt’s on his side.

“We still on for poolside shenanigans?” Dylan asks Kurt, and Blaine is grateful for the subject change. “Lila reserved us a cabana, so of course we need to make it _the Party Cabana._ ” Dylan shimmies his shoulders in demonstration. “I’m thinking a European theme; speedos for the gentlemen, no tops for the ladies.” 

“Cabana privileges will be revoked if I hear tell of a single exposed breast,” Lila threatens. Dylan puts a finger to his mouth and winks exaggeratedly up at Kurt.

“I’m in,” Kurt laughs, and they say their goodnights. Blaine makes a mental note to hide Kurt’s wickedly short swim trunks before he leaves for his round of golf. That much leg requires supervision.

***

Their suite has been turned down when they step in, the air conditioning humming gentle, white sheets folded over invitingly.

Kurt flops forward on the bed, face buried in the thick down pillows. Blaine smiles, admiring the pretty curve of Kurt’s spine. He finishes shucking off his jacket, watch, cufflinks and shoes then sits beside Kurt’s hip and lays his hand above Kurt’s beltline, where his shirt is just a little damp.

Kurt turns his head in the pillow, a half smile and a twinkling eye looking back at Blaine softly. 

“You want to go to bed, sweetheart?” 

Kurt rolls under his hand, looks up at him consideringly, cocking his head and mussing his hair unselfconsciously. It’s the same look that Blaine receives whenever he tries to take care of Kurt. Like Kurt is humoring him, letting Blaine have these little indulgences. Because they both know who the real caretaker is in this relationship, and it is _not_ Blaine. 

“No,” Kurt says, and sits up effortlessly, puts a hand to Blaine's jaw. "Not yet." A kiss that tastes like champagne and sugar and sleepiness. 

Sweet lips against his and it tongs through Blaine like a clock tower bell. Overwhelming and soul-shaking. A violent, full-bodied slap of pure adoration. Love, he supposes. What else could so cleanly wash away his doubt, his practicality, his fears. Terrifying. Thrilling. Addictive. 

Blaine tugs at him, pulls Kurt into his lap, easy and snug. Cradles his long limbs and kisses the end of his nose. Love like a gasp caught in his throat, a shock of adrenaline so he can breathe again and keep loving this boy.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Blaine asks him, hushed. “What do you need?”

The side of Kurt's mouth twitches again. Another indulgence. But he just studies Blaine, hands curving around his neck, thumbs rasping through his stubble. 

What _Blaine_ needs, what he knows Kurt will give him, is an opportunity for redemption. To make it up to Kurt for running him through the Anderson family gauntlet for the sake of Blaine's crazy, uncontrollable, selfish, unstoppable love. 

“I want this.” Kurt weaves his arms around Blaine’s neck, slim arms but strong wrists and big hands, like a puppy. Kisses Blaine with his smile, jiggles his bottom in Blaine’s lap. “I want that big cock of yours. And I want to feel it tomorrow when you abandon me to hit balls with sticks.”

“Correction, when _you_ abandon _me_ to sunbathe with my fashion-model son-in-law.”

Kurt laughs at Blaine’s accusing eyebrow. “This is why I need you to be...thorough. Gift me with the constant reminder that the non-model I have is a better investment.”

“Mmm, that mean you’re going to make some noise for me, sweet baby boy?”

“Oh, Daddy, _yes_.” 

Huge eyes, so sincere, and Blaine will play this game, this gloriously naughty little game, right up until it isn't one. Until they come out of it on the other side, their most honest selves, laid bare and vulnerable and god, it's terrifying, he almost can’t breathe again, but he never knew trust like this existed, that a connection with another human being could be forged so strong. He never knew he could want anything so badly, and love it so much when he finally had it.

Blaine slips out of character, while they’re still here, in the shallow end. 

“Are you good, sweetheart?” he asks seriously, brushing a tired flip of hair off of Kurt’s forehead.

Kurt wiggles his bottom again, looks up at the ceiling, blinks like he's testing his own levels. He purses his lips and then slips off of Blaine's lap. 

“Gimme a few. You relax and I'll be right back,” he instructs. “And do _not_ order room service, you lovely and thoughtful yet misguided man.” 

Blaine puts his hands up. _One time_ and Blaine gets reminded at every hotel they stay in that he needs to be patient, that having midnight cheesecake delivered is nice, but not certainly not midcoitus.

“And Blaine, dear, be naked when I come back out,” Kurt says briskly, dimming the lamps around the bed, taking off his own clothes and carefully hanging his pants, smirking at Blaine’s watchfulness.

He slips into the bathroom in just his briefs, tiny and black, so low-cut that they barely contain the peeking tops of his ass. Blaine wants to chase him in, but he knows that Kurt will get touchy and anxious. He only recently started using toilets with Blaine in the same borough. 

Blaine is secretly looking forward to Kurt's reaction to the rude intimacy and closeness of marriage. Living together is one thing, living together and knowing that your spouse has _vowed_ to stay with you no matter what, means loosening the belt a little on one’s human nature. Letting the romantic sheen rub off and discovering that your spouse is mortal, and then cherishing them in spite of it. Hopefully. Blaine’s ex may as well have filed the divorce on the basis of his flossing habits alone.

The thing is, while Blaine took an evil pleasure in torturing his ex-wife with mirror stalactites, he knows that if Kurt asked him to, he’d walk to the ocean to floss every night. Happily.

Blaine hangs his pants too, doffs everything else in the direction of his open suitcase. He turns the sheets on the bed the rest of the way with a flip of his wrist and lays down, the sheets pleasantly cool under his back. It feels nice to be freed from his formal wear, and Blaine considers turning on the TV to find some late night news, digging his head back into the big down pillows. 

And then, as he is prone to do when lying horizontal and unoccupied, he immediately falls asleep.

He wakes to Kurt, clean and damp-haired, laying down in the scoop of his arm, head on Blaine’s shoulder, sheet pulled up to their waists.

“Mmm, I’m awake, I’m awake,” he says, scrubbing his face with his free hand. 

“No, you’re not. Go back to sleep, Blaine, dear.” Kurt strokes his chest gently and slips a leg over his, as though to keep him down. 

“Mmmph,” Blaine grunts, and gives it some serious thought. He tightens his arm around Kurt, palms his hip. Kurt is ridiculously beautiful like this, draped along him, long and fair. A minute in the sun and Blaine browns up like a chestnut, the hair on his chest and arms going light. But Kurt stays pale, a creature of shade and sunblock.

Blaine’s eyes droop closed again as he admires their contrast, skin to skin.

There was a time, in the beginning, when Blaine was completely prepared to let Kurt go. He told himself that he would continue courting this hilarious, thoughtful, smart, talented kid until that kid got sick of him. And then Blaine would return to reality, blessed with memories, but nothing more.

Kurt was never for keeps. 

A teenager, for godsake. Just a teenager who came to the city with nothing but a classic New York dream and enough Ferris Buellian confidence to pull it off. True, a teenager who collects thumbprint depression era glass and has the lineage of the British monarchy memorized back to feudal times. But still. Just a kid, with a blindingly bright, amazing future that has no room for a man like Blaine. Maybe Blaine’s patronage, but certainly not Blaine’s love.

Kurt may radiate an air of high-maintenance, but he never truly wants for anything but Blaine’s regard, for his laughter, his honest, genuine self. Kurt’s hand around his bicep, Kurt’s breath on his ear when Kurt murmurs his precious thoughts just for Blaine, is just as thrilling, as satisfying as Kurt under his hips, Kurt’s curious, virgin mouth around his cock. Perfect, precious, all the more invaluable because his skin, his sarcasm, his kisses can never be bought. Kurt is a gift that Blaine never thought was possible, one that he’d never get to keep.

So he'd have this fling, a mid-life crisis maybe, still cheaper than buying a Ferrari.

And then Kurt would wake up one morning, realise the impossibility of their relationship for himself, and turn to the hovering flock of suitable young men he attracts like hummingbirds. Find someone his own age, maybe a little older to compliment his own old soul, but someone he could build a life with, experience New York to the fullest extent with. And then let Blaine down gently.

And Blaine would let him go. Grateful for every memory of every touch, for every second he was blessed with. For tasting a love too flavorful, too perfect for even his own imagination. Never taking for granted that Kurt changed his life, made it better, made it something of substance unmeasured. Kiss him and touch his skin and wish him only the best, with no grudge, because it was never going to end differently.

Then one day, without intent, watching this beautiful boy smirk at him across a crowded coffee shop table in Midtown Manhattan, Blaine was struck. 

Like lightning, like cupid’s high-powered crossbow, like a sledgehammer to the face. He knew, he just _knew_ , confirmed with every thump of his heart, that he would fight and beg and do terrible things to keep Kurt. To have the privilege of being a part of Kurt's life. To be the one Kurt smiles at and looks to and takes care of. Selfish, yes, nearsighted, definitely, but Blaine isn't a kid himself. Can recognize a feeling this sincere and torrential to be something unique, something to be cherished. The future will come, a lot faster for Blaine, and they'll figure it out. Together. 

Kurt will surely visit him in the nursing home. 

Now he pets Kurt's young, flawless skin, palms his sweet little asscheek. Relaxes further back into sleep with every stroke, and then-

"What’s this?" he asks, voice rough. But he already knows. A slip of lubricant, and when he burrows his fingers down between Kurt’s ass cheeks, there is more. 

"I knew you were close to comatose,” Kurt hums, a slow blink of lashes against the skin of Blaine’s shoulder. “Thought I’d save you some trouble.”

With a surge of dark energy, he uses the scoop of Kurt he has to heave Kurt over. He hovers, blinking away his fatigue and taking in Kurt’s saucy smirk.

“Are you actually trying to act innocent? You know you're not supposed touch yourself there without permission.”

“But, Daddy-”

“Don't ‘Daddy’ me. That was very, very bad.” Blaine sits up and Kurt kneels slowly beside Blaine’s bare legs like a mermaid on a rock, eyes cast down, lashes long on his cheeks. Blaine is wide awake now.

“Did you finger yourself?” Blaine asks with severity.

Kurt whispers something, pouting up at Blaine through his lashes. 

“Speak up.”

“Yes,” Kurt admits petulantly.

“Did you like it? Did you wiggle your little fingers in deep?”

A sniff. The petulance melting into contriteness.

“I...”

“Well, did you?” Blaine touches the line of his sweet baby’s jaw. “Did you make yourself feel good without your Daddy?”

“Yes,” Kurt whispers, squirming.

Blaine puts his hand down and Kurt watches it fall to the bed. “Oh, little one. You know better.”

Kurt goes for Blaine’s cock, which is swollen from the revelation of Kurt’s ready asshole, standing at a lean. At Kurt's eager touch, his ploy for forgiveness, it straightens, filling out hard and ready. Blaine grips his wrist gently, lifts the hand away.

“Oh, no. Let go. It's too late for that.”

Kurt’s voice cracks. “Oh Daddy, but I was trying to be good. I wanted to be good for you, that’s all.”

“You were trying to get attention and that’s exactly what you’re going to get. Turn over, let me see again.”

Kurt slowly crawls over Blaine’s lap, a knocking collection of limbs and tight stomach. Sticky lashes blinking quick over wet eyes, in direct contrast with how ridiculously hard Kurt is, his cock swaying long and dark above his neat, naked balls. 

_Gorgeous_ , Blaine thinks, helping Kurt get into position. Ribs press against Blaine’s erection, hot smooth skin, knees tucked beside Blaine’s thigh, ass round and high. And that face helps; lip trembling, high pink in his cheeks. He gently cups the back of Kurt’s neck, thumbs the bone of his spine. Kurt whines softly. 

The first, second, third and fourth times Kurt had wept during their games, Blaine had immediately called it off, ignoring Kurt’s annoyance and claims of superior acting abilities. Kurt had swiped at his own cheeks with his palms, said, _“See? Not real. I’m fine! And- oh, Blaine, dear, no, no, no, don’t put your pants back on!”_

But the tears, they had to come from somewhere. If he believed Kurt, that they were just an act, then they still had to come from somewhere terrible. Kurt has to call up some unwanted feeling to make them fall. And if they come from the moment, from Kurt sinking too far into their game and being overwhelmed by anxiousness, Blaine doesn’t want them - would do anything to calm and reassure his little lover.

Now...now he understands. Or is maybe on the bridge to understanding. The tears come from the need to _please_ Blaine. They fall when his Daddy’s approval is at risk. And Kurt has it. Kurt can do absolutely no wrong in his eyes, and if that’s too parental, if that crosses their thin and misty line, then he’s climbing in the hell-bound handbasket himself. Because Kurt’s tears now have a pavlovian effect on Blaine. 

Kurt is unnaturally flexible; Blaine loves to run his hands over the folded lines of him, the sweet taper above his ass, glint of lube between his cheeks. Blaine gently parts them, peeks at his shiny hole, drawn tight. He tisks again. 

“Oh, little one, you know this is for your Daddy.”

A guilty sniff. 

He holds Kurt’s ass cheeks apart with the fingers of one hand, pets over the wrinkled, slippery skin of his anus with the other. It spasms guiltily too. 

“Open up, baby, I need to see what mischief you’ve been up to.”

Kurt fidgets under his hands, but doesn’t unclench. Blaine gives him a little tap to his right cheek, the flesh quivering under the slap deliciously. 

“Oh!” Kurt squeaks, and his asshole mouths open in surprise. Blaine hooks the tips of two fingers in and slides them deep to the meet of his hand in one smooth push. 

The intrusion drives the breath from Kurt with another adorable sound. His insides are warm and slicked and move excitedly around Blaine’s fingers, matching the little bobs of his hips. 

“So wet, you’re so wet and ready for your Daddy,” Blaine tells him, hushed, so he can clearly hear the squishy sounds of his fingers moving in and out of his little one’s hole, as he inspects deeper and more thoroughly. 

“Please, Daddy,” Kurt whines, and he brushes the hair from Kurt’s forehead with his clean hand, to better see Kurt’s desperate blue eye rolled up at him from the bed. “Please, I need more, please, I want more.”

Despite the quiet coolness of their suite, there is sweat at Kurt’s temple and Blaine thumbs the damp hair there, down his sideburn and to the smooth skin of his jaw. Kurt only has to shave under his chin and over his lip, and only a few times a week, mock glares when Blaine insists on watching. 

“Shhh, shh, of course you do, pretty baby. But you were bad,” Blaine tells him, and pulls his fingers halfway out, spreading them as much as he can, so Kurt is gaping wide, his shadowed hole pink and clean and enticing. “You touched yourself without your Daddy. Consider this your punishment.” 

Kurt whines, mouth open, eyes closed, and rubs his hips up onto Blaine’s fingers. Blaine takes his time, enjoys Kurt’s squirms, baits him mercilessly, goaded by the wet kiss of Kurt’s leaking cockhead twisting against his thigh.

He teases and rubs and enjoys the give of Kurt’s ass, experiments with different ways to press pleasure out of his sweet baby until the little hiccuping sighs become too frantic and he has to pull his hand free and toss Kurt up the bed. Crawls after the knowing smirk that breaks on Kurt’s flushed face, the impossibly wide spread of his thighs as he leans back on his elbows. 

Kneels up and fucks into Kurt bare, unhinged past the reason telling him to take ten seconds and put on a condom for clean-up ease alone. Wraps his hands around Kurt’s thighs and pulls Kurt onto Blaine’s dick fucking into him. Drops him back onto the bed when Kurt tries to touch his own cock, dares to touch what is his Daddy’s, takes Kurt into his own hand with a growl and makes him shoot all over his stomach, mouth wide open with a silent cry.

Lets Kurt push him back in turn, sit down on his slick cock, so precise and firm, lets Kurt take care of him, riding him fast and rough and _loud_ , lets Blaine be loud, and selfish, and so, so in love.

Afterwards, even though the clock beside the bed is glowing a bright 2:00am, Kurt still cleans them up, makes Blaine _move_ , how can he move when Kurt just did _that_ to him? But Kurt arranges them just so; they typically fall asleep in the same position (Blaine on his back, Kurt curled half on top of him, one knee dangerously close to Blaine’s groin) with the same arrangement of pillows around them (two at the top of the bed, one behind Kurt’s back, another boxing Blaine in on the other side) even if they wake up in a myriad of positions. 

They have a routine at night, and it’s one that Blaine finds himself looking forward to, one he will viciously rearrange his schedule to protect. 

No TV, no books, definitely no Blackberry. Just them, talking. Sometimes serious, most of the time not, but so important. No matter how busy they get, no matter how many texts Blaine isn’t available to answer, no matter how many people in their lives vie for their collective attention, they always have this.

“I can’t wait until you make an honest man out of me,” Kurt says softly into the dark, his head on Blaine’s shoulder.

“Ditto, sweetheart,” he replies sincerely. Few life decisions he’s made have felt so right and so pleasantly inevitable. But he feels Kurt’s smile against the base of his throat and frowns a little, takes the time to remind himself what an enormous life change and commitment it’ll be for Kurt. What is natural to Blaine will be a drowning wave of new stress for him.

Then again, he’ll also enjoy introducing Kurt as something a little more material. _Boyfriend_ not only sounds ridiculous, but isn’t at all representational of what Kurt is to him. After his children, Kurt is who he loves and admires most in the world. Kurt is his reason for rediscovering himself as an individual, not just a father or a manager. Kurt inspires Blaine to give again in his relationship, instead of just cataloging what he can take. 

If he could introduce Kurt as his _soulmate_ without sounding like a lunatic, he would. _Fiance_ is a vast improvement over boyfriend, and _husband_ will certainly make him happier than he’s ever been. 

“I’ll have to check my schedule-,” Blaine begins, and Kurt’s arm tightens over his chest, but Blaine makes no move for his phone, knows much better than to break the sanctity of their routine, “-but I think I can make it to Ohio not next weekend, but the one after. Will that work for you?” 

“What? Why do we have to go to Ohio?” Kurt asks in surprise. 

“Well, I figure I owe it to Burt to ask for his blessing in person, even if it puts me in strangling range.” 

Kurt untangles himself and wriggles up to meet Blaine’s kiss. The dim starlight peeking in around the curtains is just bright enough to illuminate Kurt’s wry grin.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. You’re right, he’ll probably at least attempt a strangling.” 

“I know. You’re worth it,” Blaine tells him with absolute sincerity, kissing his nose for good measure.

Kurt settles solidly back down around him, but Blaine feels gloriously light. There is only a little stress around the edges - yes, because of Burt and Carole - but also because he wants to make his actual proposal special. While he trusts that Kurt would be overjoyed with any effort, he betrays his youth in the way that no one can predict what Kurt thinks he does or does not deserve. And Blaine wants to exceed all of his expectations. 

He thinks about finally using his influence to get Kurt time off, and then immediately dismisses the idea. Kurt is fiercely proud of his position at Vogue, and should be. Blaine can objectively count him as a strong resource for the company and sees him quickly becoming a direct credit to the success of the magazine. 

Blaine never wants to give Kurt reason to suspect Blaine has anything to do with his treatment at Vogue. Kurt needs to own that achievement without question.

To Kurt’s credit, he’d kept their relationship a secret from his coworkers for an admirably long time. Had even forgone attending a Wintour party as Blaine’s date to maintain the deception. 

The jig was finally up when, during a moment of wine and weakness and Kurt’s gorgeous neck, they were busted by Isabelle Wright making out at the valet stand of _Raymi_ while waiting for their car. 

Isabelle had been horrified, immediately coming to the reasonable conclusion that Blaine was taking advantage of her intern, and Blaine had greatly admired her uncompromising defence of Kurt’s long-lost innocence. And it wasn’t until Kurt came on full-time that he’d unwound far enough to let Blaine come down to the 10th floor to pick him up for lunch, half the office gaping openly when he’d held Kurt’s jacket for him to slip on, offered his elbow for Kurt to thread his arm through. 

Though they are tucked in for the night, and Blaine had indulged in far too much wine to perform the miracle of coming twice, he’s suddenly overcome by want. He wants to taste Kurt some more, feel him sweet and responsive, so he opens Kurt up again, fingers under the sheet. 

“Mmmm, all this marriage talk is making you frisky, isn’t it?” Kurt whispers.

“Must be it,” Blaine rumbles back. But it’s really just Kurt, his little love, his sweet baby, his better, and better-looking half.

Blaine isn’t fully hard, but he wants to be inside of his little one, covers his back and nudges in with a guiding hand and the slip of lube and his own come, kept warm in Kurt’s hole.

In the morning he’ll let Kurt sleep off his hangover (Kurt will wake up grumpy but will look fresh as a daisy) and will go golfing with his children, giving Rudy special attention, maybe drop some small hint that he’s making permanent plans with Kurt. 

Another advantage to making it official is that Rudy knows Blaine would never enter into marriage lightly. Putting his children through a volatile divorce in their teenage years had made them both frighteningly independent and fiercely devoted. It could have very easily gone the other way.

For now he gathers the unlikely love of his life closer, spoons around and over him, slowly moving them together in a comforting, sleepy rock. Not trying to get them off, not trying to take them anywhere, but just enjoying the feeling of being joined and one. Eventually, they sleep.


End file.
